The Case of the Disappearing Corpse by June Whyte Page A

paused, letting the threat sink in. “I swear I’ll throw it in the river.”
    I could see his conflicting thoughts as though they were tattooed across his forehead.
    “You wouldn’t…”
    “Try me.”
    “Where is it?”
    “You’ll be diving for it in about ten seconds if you don’t let my sister go.”
    He pushed Sarah away from him.
    “There,” he snarled, a dribble of spit stuck to the corner of his mouth. “Now get inside the warehouse and we’ll talk.”
    As if.
    “Run, Sarah!” I shouted, picking up a nearby fish-cage and throwing it at Sam’s head. I could see Sarah staggering to regain her balance. “Split up! Run! You get the police and I’ll find Tayla.”
    “I wouldn’t advise that, Chiana.” The new voice coming from behind us was silky soft with a hint of steel and dripped with menace. “Move and you’re both dead.”
    I froze in mid-stride. The word ‘dead’ bouncing around in my head like one of those nightmares you have after pigging out on pizza. Every nerve jangled. Every muscle was on high alert. And I had a cramp right where my heart was busy running an Olympic marathon.
    “Cha,” Sarah whispered, her voice rustier than an old iron gate. “P-please don’t move.”
    As if.
    “Now turn around slowly.” The voice was vaguely familiar, yet I couldn’t place it.
    Slower thana tortoise with his legs tied together I inched around to confront the owner of the chilling voice.
    A young guy in black jeans and black tee-shirt, looking more like a high-school football star than a mean, side-winding, two-bit, sneaky crook, stared back at me.
    For a moment, as recognition dawned, I felt a sense of joyful relief. Then I zeroed in on the gun and realized it was pointed straight at my head. Disappointment was like being whacked in the stomach with an iron bar.
    “Constable Roberts ? ” My voice cracked into little pieces as I said his name. This couldn’t be happening. Scary things like this only happened in books or movies—and always to other people.
    “But why?” I croaked. “You’re supposed to be one of the good guys.”
    “And what do good guys get out of life?” He sneered. “Hard work and poor pay. That’s all. This little caper will earn me more money than I’d earn in ten years on the police force.”
    I found myself staring at a face harder and more lethal than a sharp jagged rock. There was no sign of goodness in Nick Roberts now. What happened to the nice looking cop with the twinkle in his eye?
    “But I liked you,” I bleated. “And Tayla thought you looked cute.”
    Sam guffawed. “Yeah. Cute as a man-eating shark.”
    Nick turned on Sam. “Shut your face, clown. I told you to trick the brat into giving you the microfilm—and what have you done—brought three kids to the wharf.” Clearing his throat he spat noisily on the ground. “Take them into the office with the other brat and tie them up while I work out what to do.”
    “Okay, okay,” said Sam. “Don’t blow a fuse.”
    “And for God’s sake get the microfilm from her. Or do I have to do everything myself?”
    “ Everything ?” Sam’s stomach bounced off the edge of a forty-four gallon drum as he flung himself forward to push us through the doorway. “ You didn’t kill my mate, did you? Ya gave me that dirty job.”
    “Frank grew greedy. He had to go. And no-one but you could have got close enough to stab him.” Nick’s lip curled into a grim reaper smile. “Hey, enough of this soap opera drama. Get the kids into the office.”
    Sarah grabbed for my hand. It felt cold, yet sweaty. I grabbed back, thankful for the contact as we were herded into the warehouse. Our feet echoed eerily in the silence and the dark threatened to smother us; making it hard to breathe, hard to walk. My legs were so shaky they threatened to give away from under me.
    Not much bigger than our laundry at home, the “office” was lit by a globe that cast more shadow than light and made the room as welcoming as a